Free There Fell a Shadow by Andrew Klavan Page A

place, I think—was almost buried under a mass of pink notes headed “While You Were Out.” A metal ashtray was balanced precariously on top of these.
    Mrs. Colt closed her eyes wearily. “Poor Tim,” she said. “He didn’t have anyone else.”
    I took out my cigarettes. I jerked one between my teeth. I slid another one out for her.
    â€œYou were divorced?” I said.
    She nodded, waving off the cigarette. “Five years now,” she said. As I went to put the pack away, she reconsidered, reached for them. I shook one out for her. “I shouldn’t really,” she told me. “The kids don’t have anyone else.”
    â€œHow many kids?” I held my lighter up for her. She leaned into it. The flame light ran red through the lines beneath her makeup.
    She leaned back again, her head to the divider. She blew smoke at the fluorescent lights. “Two,” she said. “A boy and a girl. Six and seven.”
    â€œThat’s a lot to handle alone,” I said.
    â€œYes,” she answered quietly. “It’s a lot to handle. Alone.”
    I watched her. I waited. I wondered why she’d come.
    Her next words seemed to answer the question. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you got hurt.” She smiled. It was a tired smile. “Someone always has to—had to—do that with Tim. Apologize, I mean. People got hurt when they were around him. Someone had to … do the niceties, you know? Offer the apologies. Pick up the pieces.”
    â€œSomeone like you,” I said.
    She took a long drag of smoke, thinking. She let the smoke out with the single word: “Yes.”
    â€œEven now.”
    She nodded. “Even now. I mean, he just kept on, didn’t he? All that charm. All that intensity. He was like … a magnet.”
    I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she wanted.
    â€˜â€˜I mean,’’ she continued, “he just kept on charming people and running off on his dangerous adventures and … and people followed him. Cameramen always wanted to work with him. Officials always wanted to talk to him. Women always wanted to … to be with him. They followed him. And somehow … somehow, they always got hurt. They got shot or … or arrested or …” She lowered her gaze to me. “… or abandoned,” she said. “And he just kept on, unhurt, untouched, as if he were under some kind of invisible protection. Until now.” Her eyes blurred as the tears welled suddenly.
    â€œYou must have loved him very much,” I said. It sounded lame even to me.
    â€œOh!” With a short, quick, stabbing motion, she killed her cigarette in the ashtray between us. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Poor woman. Poor woman carrying a torch for a man who ditched her five years ago. A man who was never really there to begin with, always … always off somewhere, some other country, never … Damn.” She had laid her purse down next to the chair. She reached for it quickly now, unsnapped it, brought out a tissue. She dabbed at her cheeks with an expert gesture, caught the tears before they carried her mascara away in black streams.
    â€œI wasn’t thinking that at all,” I lied.
    She snuffled once. “Do you know where I live, Mr. Wells?” she said. “Do you know where I live with my two children? I live in one-half of a brick house in Astoria. One bedroom. One bathroom. A yard no bigger than a square of carpeting. I’m a teller for a bank out there. I can just barely afford what I’ve got. Between the rent and the day-care … he never …”
    I crushed out my cigarette carefully, slowly, watching my hand, giving her time to recover.
    â€œAnd now that he’s gone, I’m sure there’s nothing left for me. I’m sure he spent it all on … the fine hotels and the